The marble beneath her bare feet must be cold. She stumbles behind me through the foyer, Theodore's sheet trailing like a ridiculous bridal train. How fitting.
My penthouse feels different tonight. Cleaner. Like I'm finally removing a stain that's been festering for years.
"Valent, please—" Her voice echoes off the high ceilings. "It was a mistake. You have to believe me."
I don't respond. Don't turn around. She'll follow. They always follow when they're desperate.
The bar calls to me. Macallan 25. Perfect for celebrations.
"Please, just listen to me!" She's padding behind me like a lost dog. "I can explain everything!"
The crystal decanter feels substantial in my hands. Heavy. Real. Unlike the woman begging behind me. I pour two fingers. Maybe three. This moment deserves precision.
"After the miscarriage, you never touched me." Her voice cracks. Performance art at its finest. "I know you don't love me, but I thought... I hoped..."
The scotch burns perfectly. Smoky. Expensive. Everything she pretends to be.
"I was just looking for someone to love me." She's moved closer. I can feel her desperate energy radiating like heat. "But tonight, when you came for me, when you claimed me like that—"
I take another sip. Let the silence stretch until it's uncomfortable.
"The way you said 'What belongs to me'—I know you still care. I know our marriage can be salvaged."
Salvaged. Like a business deal gone wrong. She understands more than she realizes.
The sound of heavy footsteps interrupts her monologue. My men enter with quiet efficiency, dropping three expensive suitcases at her feet. The leather hits marble with satisfying finality.
"What's happening?" She turns from the luggage to me, sheet clutched against her chest. "Where are my things going?"
I set down my glass. Reach into my jacket. The divorce papers are crisp, formal. Legal documents have such clean edges.
"Sign these. Now."
Her face goes white. Actually white, like someone drained her blood. "What?"
"Simple English, Celeste. Sign. The papers."
I return to my scotch while she stares at the documents like they're written in ancient Greek.
"I don't understand." Her voice sounds small. Fragile. "We can work through this. Marriage counseling, therapy—"
"I've known about your affair for exactly two years, three months, and sixteen days."
The glass pauses halfway to my lips. This moment requires my full attention.
She blinks. Once. Twice. "That's impossible."
"Did you think I was stupid?" I take a slow sip. "Or just blind?"
"You couldn't have known. We were careful—"
"Careful." The word tastes bitter. "Is that what you call fucking my best friend in his cheap apartment?"
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. A fish drowning in air.
"I've been gathering evidence. Waiting for the perfect moment." Another sip. "Tonight, when you thought I was safely in Berlin, seemed ideal."
I reach for my tablet. The one I keep specifically for special occasions.
"Would you like to see?"
The first video loads immediately. Celeste entering Theodore's building, November 15th. She's wearing the red dress I bought her for our anniversary dinner. The one she claimed made her feel beautiful.
"I was—" she starts.
"Shopping. Yes, I remember the lie."
The second video: them kissing in his doorway, Christmas Eve. She told me she was volunteering at the children's hospital.
"How did you—"
"Hidden cameras have become remarkably sophisticated." The scotch is making everything sharper. Clearer. "And remarkably small."
The third video makes her gasp. Theodore's bedroom. Her naked body beneath his. The sound is muted, but her face says everything.
"Every time," I murmur, pouring another drink. "Every touch. Every lie you told me afterward."
She lunges for the tablet, smashing it against the marble. The screen spiders into a thousand pieces. How symbolic.
"Cloud storage, my dear." I pull out my phone. "Destroying that saves you nothing."
Seven different servers. Redundant backup systems. I learned from the best.
"I have footage from seventeen different encounters." The phone displays a menu of dates like a perverse greatest hits collection. "March 15th—charity lunch, you said. April 3rd—book club with the ladies."
Her legs give out. She hits the floor hard, knees cracking against marble. The sheet pools around her like spilled milk.
"Your father's construction business is barely surviving the Riverside rezoning delays." I continue drinking while she processes. "One phone call from me kills every municipal contract he has pending."
"You wouldn't—"
"These videos released publicly?" I gesture with my glass. "Your family name becomes synonymous with adultery. Society pages love a good scandal."
"Valent, please—"
"Sign the papers quietly. Disappear quietly. Keep some dignity intact."
She crawls toward me, hands grasping at my trouser legs like a supplicant before an altar. "It was just loneliness. You abandoned me after the miscarriage."
The miscarriage. Her masterpiece of deception.
"I lost my baby and my husband the same day." Tears stream down her cheeks. Real ones, for once. "Can't you understand? I needed someone, anyone, to make me feel alive again."
"I love you." Her voice breaks completely. "I've always loved you. Since college, since the first time we met at that party. I've loved you."
The laughter starts deep in my chest. Bubbles up like champagne. She's magnificent in her desperation. Almost believable.
I set down my glass. Grab her face between my palms. Her skin is soft. Expensive moisturizers and weekly facials.
"I hate you." The words taste like freedom. "I've hated you since our wedding day."
Her eyes widen. Pupils dilated. Shock is such a pure emotion.
"Sign the papers and go find another rich man to trap with fake pregnancies."
"I never trapped you!" She jerks away from my grip. "I loved you! I wanted to build a life with you!"
"You grew distant after we lost our child. It's not my fault you abandoned me first!"
Lost our child. The fiction she's maintained for seven years. Time to burn that fairy tale to the ground.
I pour fresh scotch. This revelation deserves proper lubrication.
"There was no baby, Celeste." The words hit like bullets. "There was never a baby."
Her face goes blank. Completely empty. Like someone erased her operating system.
"What are you talking about?"
"I know you faked the pregnancy." I take a celebratory sip. "The doctored ultrasounds. The staged miscarriage at the hospital your father's company was renovating."
"That's—that's insane—"
"Your friend Sarah's urine for the pregnancy test. Very creative. Did you pay her, or was she just eager to help?"
The color drains from her face entirely. She's beautiful when she's been caught. Vulnerable in a way that money can't buy.
"I knew from day one." Another sip. "But I played along. Good husbands are supportive during pregnancies, even fake ones."
She scrambles for my whiskey glass, grabbing it with desperate fingers. The crystal shatters against the bar's edge, amber liquid spraying across marble.
"I'd rather die than divorce you!" She holds a jagged shard against her throat, hand trembling. "If you expose me, I'll kill myself first!"
The blade draws a thin line of red against pale skin. She's committed to the performance, I'll give her that.
"You won't." I move to the bar, pour another drink from a fresh glass. "You're too vain to scar that pretty neck."
Even her breakdowns are calculated. She's holding the glass wrong—too high, wrong angle. She wants to threaten, not actually damage.
"Besides," I signal my men with a subtle gesture, "suicide is permanent. Divorce just means finding a new victim."
They move like shadows. Professional. Efficient. The glass clatters harmlessly to the floor as they restrain her arms.
"Let me go!" She thrashes against their grip. "You can't make me sign!"
"Actually, I can." I guide her trembling hand to the signature line. "Much more civilized than bloodshed."
Her signature looks shaky. Uncertain. But legally binding.
"There." I release her hand. "All proper and legal."
"Take her to her father's house," I instruct my men. "That's where she belongs now."
They lift her easily, sheet and all. She's lighter than I expected. All that expensive nothing weighs very little.
"This isn't over!" Her voice echoes through the foyer as they carry her out. "I'll fight this! You'll never be happy! Neither of you will ever be happy!"
The front door closes with expensive finality. German engineering. Worth every penny.
I move to my office window, scotch in hand. The black Mercedes disappears into Olandria's glittering night. One problem solved. One asset liquidated.
Phase One: Complete.
The encrypted phone feels warm in my palm. I dial from memory.
"It's late, Carradine." The voice sounds tired. Annoyed.
"I need a favor." I take a sip. "Complete destruction. Target: Theodore Virelli."
"How complete are we talking?"
"Leave him with nothing but the clothes on his back." The scotch burns beautifully. "I want him desperate. I want him broken. I want him to understand that his choices have consequences."
"Understood. Timeline?"
"Immediate. I want him ruined by morning."
The line goes dead. Efficient people never waste time on pleasantries.
I finish my drink slowly, savoring the burn. Theodore is probably lying in his pathetic apartment right now, wondering what comes next. Wondering if I meant what I said about coming back for him.
Poor Teddy. He has no idea what's coming.
But he'll learn. They always learn when they have nothing left to lose.
I pour one final drink and raise it toward the window. Toward the distant lights of Riverside District where my future husband is probably nursing his wounds.
"Phase Two," I murmur to the glass. "Let the real games begin."